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Poetry in flames

Poetry in flames

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a little more alive A.R.ABDULLAH I woke with the window wide, the morning poured itself inside, and for a second I was nothing but a body full of sky. There was water in my eyes, but I couldn't call it crying, I think the heart has little rivers that it runs without deciding. And oh, I don't know why the sunlight makes me sad, how the brightest things can break you just by showing what you have. I've been learning how to lose without becoming lost, how to love a thing completely without asking what it costs. I've been growing around grief, like a tree around a wire, with the dead beneath my branches and the leaves reaching higher. And I, I want to be here. I want to be here. Even when the evening puts its blue hand on my ear. I want the ache, I want the bloom, I want the little patch of sunlight on the bedroom floor at noon. I want the laugh that comes too late, the tears that come too soon, the sound of somebody washing dishes in the other room. I want the years that change my face, the hands that change with mine, the crooked little constellation of mistakes I leave behind. Let me be a little broken, let me be a little bright, let me carry all my shadows like a lantern through the night. 'Cause maybe being alive isn't feeling good all the time, maybe it's finding something golden in the middle of the decline. Maybe joy is not a doorway, maybe joy is just a thread, and you find it in the sunlight on the pillow by your head. Maybe love is not forever, maybe forever isn't love, maybe it's the way you keep on reaching when you've had enough. And if I disappear someday into the dust and dandelions, let the earth say, he was here, let the rain remember my name. Let my little piece of sunlight keep somebody warm at night, let my sorrow feed the roses, let my leaving leave some light. Because I was here, with a heart like weather, with a mouth full of questions, with two hands learning better. I was here when the world was unbearable, I was here when the world was beautiful. And somewhere between the breaking and the becoming, between the crying and the singing, between the leaving and the loving, I felt it, that impossible, nameless feeling: not happiness, not hope, not peace just the strange, aching wonder of being a little more alive.

01 The Beatles - Yellow Submarine (Remastered 2009).mp36.32 MB

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Something that remembers Being alive A.R.ABDULLAH I think I was born in the afterglow, where the old houses hum and the lost rivers go, where the moon hangs low like a bruise in the blue, and every dead star still remembers you. I was small then, small enough to believe that the cracks in the ceiling were places to leave, that the night wasn't night, but a blanket pulled tight, and the dark was just heaven with nowhere for light. I had dreams in my pockets, all wrinkled and warm, little paper-winged creatures afraid of the storm. I carried them everywhere, I carried them far, past the rusted-out swings and the backs of the cars. And God, I remember the smell of the rain, the impossible summer, the sweet little pain of knowing that something was ending each day without knowing what ending was taking away. We grew like weeds through the cracks of the years, with our mouths full of laughter, our eyes full of fears. We learned how to smile when the smiling felt wrong, how to call ourselves weak when we'd carried so long. And somewhere between the child and the scar, I stopped asking heaven why heaven was far. I became what I feared: not broken, but changed, a house rearranged by a tenantless flame. The rooms were still there, but the windows looked strange, and the boy in the mirror had forgotten my name. Still, there are nights when the past comes back barefoot, with mud on its ankles and stars in its hair, and sits at the foot of my bed without speaking as if it had always been there. And I almost believe it. I almost go home. I almost hear voices through walls of old stone. I almost feel sunlight on bicycles, knees, and the world before sorrow had learned how to breathe. But morning arrives with its merciless gold, and the dreams that looked endless grow suddenly old. The years don't explode, they quietly pass, like trains in the distance behind sheets of glass. So what am I now? Not the child I was. Not the dream I abandoned. Not the person because I have spent half my life trying to become. I'm something unfinished, something becoming, a heart still drumming though nobody's humming, a mouth full of names that the years took away, a little more broken, a little more brave. And maybe that's growing: to lose what you knew, to grieve all the selves you once thought would be you, then gather their pieces, their beautiful scars, and sew them like constellations back into your heart. Because I am still here. Still stupidly breathing. Still dreaming of places I've never been seeing. Still carrying summers that died long ago, still loving the people I had to let go. And if someday I become only dust, let me be dust that remembers the sun. Let me be ash with a pulse in its chest, a ghost of a boy who kept trying his best. Let the wind take my name where the wildflowers grow. Let it scatter the things I was too scared to show. Let some stranger walk past on an ordinary day and feel, for no reason, that somebody once stayed. Somebody once dreamed. Somebody once cried. Somebody grew older without knowing why. Somebody loved this world though the world could be cruel. Somebody was frightened. Somebody was beautiful. Somebody was me, and somehow, somehow, I'm still becoming the thing I was dreaming I would be.

الكاعد يرفع ايده

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To be reborn I am the love I give Not the love I receive I am the scar that bleeds Not which scar is hidden I am the flower that blooms Not which grief was buried in shame The broken bones that turn to wings Not into aches that beg for names If the world will always take And call its hunger fate Then let my hands remain undone By all they could not create Let silence carve me into truth Let absence make me whole For I was never built from love... But from the ruins That refused To lose their soul By Harvey

Leonard Cohen - A Singer Must Die.mp37.71 MB

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02 Leonard Cohen - Take This Waltz (Paris Version).mp313.79 MB

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Cameron Winter - Drinking Age.mp38.17 MB

I started writing when i made it I started making new friends with the coolest people And so much more happend since

This channel has seen me Grow through alot Ever since november 2023 Untill now

i just want to say I love you guys

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